


Inbetween

by CaffeineAddict94



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Demons, Drabble, Drama, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, M/M, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 20:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18454247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineAddict94/pseuds/CaffeineAddict94
Summary: Larry Johnson knew that the seconds marked by the ticking of the clock were nothing more than bits of sound, inconsequential and useless. A step forward was the same as a step back, the same as going right or left, the same as never moving at all. He used to depend on time, rely on it to tell him when to eat, when to sleep, when to go and when to come home. Now, he knew it all meant nothing.Another drabble about life and death because I'm still not over what happened. I promise the next thing I write will be more upbeat.





	Inbetween

**Inbetween**

Time wasn’t linear.

Larry Johnson knew that the seconds marked by the ticking of the clock were nothing more than bits of sound, inconsequential and useless. A step forward was the same as a step back, the same as going right or left, the same as never moving at all. He used to depend on time, rely on it to tell him when to eat, when to sleep, when to go and when to come home. Now, he knew it all meant nothing.

Death was no different from life. He was still bound by the limits of structure, stuck within the confines of the four walls that once brought him comfort. There was an inky grime over everything, like blackened soot, that made it hard to tell one room from another but maybe that was better. He liked being able to construct his own reality, even if it had to fit neatly amongst the remnants of his past. He walked into his old room and ran his finger over the front edge of his easel. His finger came away dark but there was no clear path through the muck. He wasn't sure why he expected any different. 

He used to spend countless hours painting, using his brush to weave patterns guided only by his imagination. Most of what he created leaned towards the dark and macabre but with that came catharsis. When he could put his demons on canvas, leave them in the paint, he could breathe a lot easier. Nobody really seemed to get that…nobody but Sal.

_Larry watched his blue-haired friend with bemusement, observing his slight frame as he cocked his head to the side and examined his latest handiwork. The large canvas that he'd finally filled took twenty hours of work and a lot of black acrylic paint. He wasn't too sure what the jagged strokes and streaks of red really represented himself, it was more about the feeling than the shapes, but he was always keen to hear Sal's perspective._

_“I don’t know if I like this one”._

_His voice was quiet, each word spoken in his usual slow, measured way. Sal was always thinking of others, hyperaware of how anything he said could be misconstrued or taken out of context. He wasn't a timid person, certainly not meek, but careful. Larry knew he was hoping to spare his feelings, not come across as harsh or uncaring. He wasn't upset by his honesty, rather, he was curious about what made him so uncertain. He came to stand at his side, following his blue-eyed gaze to a corner of the canvas where he'd haphazardly formed a looming figure - both foreboding and ominous. Looking at it now, he could see why Sal was so transfixed. It was pretty damn scary._

_“Why not?”_

_“It’s not bad but…you can sense the pain. It’s kind of hard to look at”,_ _Sal shifted nervously on his feet, "What does it mean?"_

_“Good", he countered, purposely ignoring the question, "I don’t want people to look at it”._

_“Then why did you show me?”, he could hear the laughter in his voice, tinged slightly by a nervous tremor, "I don't-"_

_“You’re not people”._

_He reached for his hand and laced their fingers together, the simple connection enough to still his quaking heart. Sal was right, of course, the painting was based on a reoccurring nightmare. He had never moved past the sight of the red-eyed demon and it plagued his sleep, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of peace. Sal constantly tried to reassure him that there was no curse, that he wasn't marked...but it was a feeling he couldn't shake. Pretty soon, he'd get to the end of the line. No more stops, no more connections. Just him and an endless cavern of monsters his brain wouldn't be able to comprehend. Sal lightly squeezed his fingers and he tried to focus on him and nothing else. He looked at the painting for a moment longer before he pushed the easel with a sneakered foot, turning it to face the wall. Out of sight, out of mind._

He sighed before he let his hand fall away, turning to climb the steps he’d walked countless times. He had no idea how long he’d spent wandering this endless chasm, a space that existed between life and death, but the ache in his chest refused to loosen its grasp. He could still see the way Sal’s eyes dimmed when he'd found the note, as if someone has extinguished the flame inside him. Sal had died with him that day.

He cursed himself as he climbed the tree house ladder, long limbs fighting against him as he fumbled to make his ascent. What he’d done seemed noble at the time, like he was sacrificing himself for the greater good, but he’d only made things worse. He’d selfishly ripped himself from the world he knew, paying no heed to the people he was leaving behind. All he knew was anguish and pain, unyielding and heavy. Ever since his father disappeared, things had been getting worse and worse. With Sal around, it was easy to push through. He had someone to confide in, someone to look after, someone to love. When Sal left, that loneliness came back with a vengeance. He knew that Sal wasn't really gone, that he was mere walking distance away, but those few feet seemed insurmountable at times. He’d wanted to run from the dark cloud that was hanging overhead and the solution seemed easy. Maybe things would end with him, just as they’d begun with Mrs. Sanderson. He wished it’d been that easy.

He sat down on the dusty wooden floor of the treehouse, watching as dust floated in the stale air. Maybe if he’d stayed around, Sal wouldn’t have been the one left holding the knife. It was beyond their control, same as time, but he couldn’t allow himself to accept that.

He wondered where Sal was now.

(***)

The cold grey interior of a prison cell was Sal’s one and only companion. 

Western State Penitentiary’s maximum-security prison housed the most violent offenders in the state and Sal Fisher was counted as one of three-hundred and ninety-seven. Twenty-three hours of his day were spent agonizing over everything in his life that had gone wrong. The other one allowed him a brief glimpse of the outside world, a place that was growing and changing in ways he could only imagine. Despite his desire to see it with his own eyes, he knew he belonged behind bars. After all, he could never live with what he'd done. It was a mercy, a kindness, but not to himself. His days would be spent alone. Forever. 

The voices were still in his head, snarling and unforgiving. He’d done what they'd asked, he always did what they asked, and still they taunted him. He was simply a cog in the machine, a piece of the puzzle that needed to fit neatly – like so. Once he was dead, he hoped it’d all be over.

He turned his mask over in his hands, absently toying with the straps as he thought back to that night. He wished Larry would’ve come back with him, that he’d stayed close. They were always better together, stronger in twos – almost unstoppable in a group. It was the isolation that sealed their fate, allowed the darkness to worm its way in. Larry had it the worst; he’d never left Addison.

Sal remained convinced that it was the building that had cursed them, no matter what anyone else believed. The cult, the spirits, everything came back to that apartment. The whole place needed to be destroyed, demolished, something. It didn’t matter if it was condemned, if the residents were no more. So long as that place was allowed to stand, its foundation would bleed into the earth. The corner of his mouth twitched as a dull throbbing started behind his temples. If he’d gotten his way that night, he would’ve set the whole place ablaze – himself included. He tightened his grip on his mask, tears forming in his eyes as he looked at what had become a barrier between himself and the world. It was his protection, his comfort, even still.  

_“It’s okay, Sal”._

_He scrambled to retrieve his mask, the blood rushing through his ears making it impossible to pay attention to anything else. The wail of a guitar was nothing but distant noise, Larry’s low voice a humming buzz. He needed his mask. He had to get his mask. He chastised himself for not tightening the straps enough, for getting too caught up in the moment. He didn't want to ruin things and once Larry took one look at the mess of his face, he'd never want to be around him again. He'd had it happen before and, ever since then, he'd vowed to never let anyone see the truth. He couldn't._

_“Hey”, Larry’s hand at his shoulder was enough to freeze him in place._

_He reluctantly lifted his head to meet Larry’s patient gaze, trembling in anticipation of a reaction. He expected to see the disgust written all over his face, the same horror he saw mirrored back at him from everyone but his parents. Even the doctors had looked at him like a failed experiment, assuring his parents that a prosthetic was going to be his easiest transition back to 'normal' life. It pained him to understand how right they were. Weird looks were so much better than total isolation. He flinched as Larry reached out to him, gently adjusting one of his pigtails._ _He didn't so much as flinch and Sal saw no fear behind his open expression. There was nothing but kindness._

_“I told you it was a good song”, he smiled before he reached down to pick up the prosthetic, turning it over to inspect it for damage before he placed it in his waiting hand, “I can let you borrow the CD. Just don’t lose it this time”._

He angrily swiped at his eyes before he re-secured his mask. In a few minutes, he’d be ushered to his first counseling session. He wasn’t sure what the point was, the public had already decided he was guilty, but this was probably the one chance he’d get to tell his story. He owed it to everyone at Addison, all the people he’d come to consider family. Whether anyone believed him or not didn’t matter.

It all ended here.


End file.
